


it's skyrim, bitch

by ineptindividual



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, RWBY
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Explicit Language, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Lesbian Yang Xiao Long, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Blake Belladonna/Adam Taurus, Probably Slow to Update, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Sort of friends to lovers, Tags May Change, alternate universe - skyrim, bisexual disaster Blake Belladonna, he's kinda a mashup of a bunch of characters i guess?? you'll see, one original character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-13 03:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17480651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptindividual/pseuds/ineptindividual
Summary: Her eyes squeezed shut, teeth bit into her tongue hard enough to draw blood, and she thought dadrubyqrow—And then there was a deafening screech— so loud it made Yang grimace in pain.“What in Oblivion is that?”“Sentries, what do you see?”The ground shifted beneath her, and Yang heard the chaotic sounds of swords being freed from their sheaths, bows being pulled taught, men shouting in fear and alarm.She opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t.orthe Skyrim AU no one asked for





	1. It's a Bird! It's a Plane! No, It's a Dragon!

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh so i think this is gonna be sort of a bunch of oneshots/twoshots with an overarching story? slice of life in a way i guess? you never really know where writing will take you until you sit down and do it so we'll see
> 
> in other words, this is probably gonna be a hot mess. let's see what happens, shall we? 
> 
> (please tell me if i missed any typos/grammatical errors, i scoured it but i always miss something :/ )

It had all gone smoothly until the Imperial assholes showed up. 

Now, Yang usually didn’t meddle with politics. She left that to the people who actually gave a damn about it all— the haughty, egotistical pricks whose pride couldn’t survive even the slightest of hits— and spent her time working on her fighting technique, or running errands for her father, which was what she’d been doing before it all happened. 

She’d just passed through Riverwood with a new horse for the family (Old Faithful was living up to the first half of her name, but not the latter) when an Imperial patrol came up behind her, from the direction of Whiterun. Two large carts filled with what looked like Stormcloak prisoners, five men seated atop chargers escorting them, and more than a handful of foot soldiers spread throughout. 

At the time Yang thought it was an awful lot of manpower for some simple Stormcloak “rebels”. 

She gave them plenty of room to pass by without altercation, but even so, one of the cavalry pulled off from the rest, trotting his horse along her side. It was much too close for her comfort. 

“Where’d you get that horse?”

It struck Yang as a strange question, but she knew it was best not to voice the thought aloud. The Stormcloaks may have been a bunch of loud, sweaty men hungry for the privilege they once had, but the Imperials were just as bad, if not worse. They only hid it behind an air of entitlement instead of shouting it from the rooftops with a tankard in hand. With their power hunger came impatience, and with their impatience came impetuous actions. Yang knew from experience. 

She had answered, “I bought it at the Whiterun stables, sir.” 

The soldier had stared back at her with dark eyes hidden beneath a dark helmet, and for a moment, Yang thought he would trot back over to his patrol and let her go her merry little way. But then he shook his head, mouth curving into an unimpressed line, and said, “I don't think you did.” 

Yang’s temper flared up, a familiar warmth pooling in her now clenched fists. The reins in her right hand began to smoke, the scent of burning leather filling the air, and Yang glared as she reached toward the saddlebag, saying, “I have the papers right—”

“ _ Halt _ !” 

There had been the smooth  _ shick _ of a sword being drawn, and Yang froze. 

“In the name of the Empire, stop right there!”

Yang had dropped her left hand back to her side, keeping the reins in her right. The soldier’s yell had caught the attention of several of his comrades, and to Yang’s horror, she saw one pull out a set of handcuffs as he and two others ambled over. “Look, I’ve got the papers in my bag,” she explained. The reins in her hands went slack, and she quickly grabbed the now-separated and charred pieces while she continued, “I’m not trying to—”

“Arrest this thief,” the cavalry soldier snapped. “Put her in whichever cart has room.” He turned his horse away, kicked his heels into its sides, and trotted back off to the line. The idea of doing the same but much faster passed through her mind, but the other three soldiers were already there, pulling her down roughly from her horse and hissing from the heat of her skin. 

“Wizard, this one,” she heard one of them mumble. “Watch yourselves.” 

When they set her on the ground, Yang was quick to act. 

She shoved her elbow into the nearest guard’s gut and pushed him to the ground, but not before grabbing the hilt of his sword and drawing it out with lightning speed. She didn't usually fight with swords (she preferred spiked or brass knuckles) but with the number of soldiers surrounding her, she knew she needed the piece of steel for an edge— metaphorically  _ and _ literally. 

Chuckling at her little joke, Yang swung the sword in a wide arc as she turned to face the other two soldiers, catching one in the arm and missing the other completely. The one she hit let out a loud scream, and before Yang knew what was happening, she’d been tackled to the ground, sword yanked from her grip and wrists shoved together to be manacled, her breath knocked from her lungs and into the ground along with her pride. The irons were cold and rusted, cutting painfully into her skin as she swallowed a mouthful of mud. Two soldiers hauled her to her feet, and she spat a wad of dirt at one of them, baring her now dirtied teeth. They answered by patting her down and taking any and all of her valuables. As Yang kicked and hissed, they tossed her into the back of one of the carts. 

And here she was now, sitting on one of the cart’s two benches, temper slightly less volatile but still burning, her head aching from when she’d been shoved to the ground and shackled. Her new friends in the wagon were a strange assortment— many of them seemed to be of nordic descent, such as herself, but there were a couple who stood out. 

A man across from her and to her right was bound and gagged, dark eyes closed shut as he rested. He wore a collection of furs so thick it was hard to tell how he was built, be it stocky or lanky, but his clothing did nothing to hide his tattoos. They were a dark, dark ink; so dark Yang thought they must be fresh, but there was no redness to his skin where he’d been marked. They curled and furled like smoke across his face, accentuating the sharpness of his profile and the paleness of his skin. His hair was equally as dark and fell just short of touching his shoulders, straight as a sword’s edge. She figured one could call him the type that was so handsome he was deadly, and Yang would definitely agree with the latter half of that statement. Deadly he seemed, yes, handsome, perhaps. In all honesty, his pale skin and jet black hair made her think of the personification of Death, or something like a daedric prince. 

And to her left was the only other female in her cart. Equally as dark-haired as Death-man, but darker skinned, suggesting she’d spent many a day out under the sun. All soft curves, yet something about her made her seem sharper than a razor. She wore a light layer of black and dark grey furs to shield her from the chill autumn weather, and her hands were bound with two sets of irons, as well as her ankles, though her mouth was left uncovered. Perhaps it was just the plethora of shackles, but Yang had the notion that the girl could be just as deadly as Death-man. Her eyes didn’t help the matter; they were pinpricks of honey-gold in a sea of black, lovely and frightening all at once. Dark bangs covered them half-heartedly as if they were shadows and her eyes the sun— though no light shone in her eyes, strangely enough. A hint of hunger, a dash of desperation, and a sprinkling of sorrow were all that Yang could see in the golden orbs— nothing else. They were borderline void of any emotion at all. 

And on the opposite bench, tucked into the corner, curled into a small ball, was a boy. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, perhaps even fourteen, yet here he was. Olive skinned, umber haired, and emerald eyed, he wore a dirty grey, possibly green, tunic and a pair of black slacks about two sizes too big for his person. He seemed to be malnourished, but that could have been a trick of the eyes, with how loosely his clothes fit, and clamped around his bony wrists were a pair of manacles, not unlike the girl next to her and the death man. 

The four of them, including Yang, were the only ones in the cart with their wrists bound by iron and steel. The rest of their fellow prisoners were tied together by simple rope, something Yang thought strange and unwise of the Imperial soldiers to do. 

Looking around at their surroundings, they were still on the road towards Falkreath, her home hold, but that didn’t mean much. Falkreath was the closest hold to their position that was affiliated with the Legion, so perhaps they were sending them to Falkreath’s dungeons to be held until they could be taken to Solitude, the Empire’s capital, and if that was the case, Yang was terrifically lucky. The people of Falkreath knew her and would get word to Tai and Ruby before anything drastic happened. 

The cart took a right. 

Yang’s eyebrows drew together. She asked the man across from her, “So, where’s this whole parade headed to?”

The man blinked at her, stringy blonde hair falling into his pale eyes. He scratched the side of his face, rubbed his stubble, then focused his gaze somewhere off to her right. Yang shifted in her seat to see what it was he was staring at so intently, but nothing was there. 

She turned back around in her seat, scowling lightly. “Alright, I see how it is.” She forced a smile as she turned to the girl next to her— the quadruply shackled girl— and asked cheekily, “So, you come here often?”

Silence. Yang expected as much since her last attempt at dialogue had failed. Even so, she persevered. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d carried a conversation all by her lonesome. 

“Is this your first time doing anything like this?”

More silence. 

Yang sighed, leaning back in her seat as she said, “I never thought this would happen, yet here I am.” She shifted her bound hands and shook them, a weak attempt to break free. “I mean, it crossed my mind a few times, but it just seemed weird, you know? Like I would never let it happen to me.” She leaned over and bumped shoulders with the dark-haired girl. The girl didn’t turn her head to look at her, only gave her a spare sidelong glance with those odd golden eyes. 

“Do you happen to know where we’re headed to?” she asked amiably. After a second of hesitation, she decided to add a bright smile. 

The girl blinked once, then turned her attention back to the modest forest surrounding them. 

Yang sighed.  _ Okay, then.  _ She turned to the man seated to her right, leaned closer to him, and sent him a wink as she said, “Do you know where we’re going?” 

The man kept looking forward, his bewhiskered upper lip twitching to expose yellow teeth in a grimace. His large head slowly turned toward her, gaze never breaking with her own. He popped his neck in what she supposed he thought was a menacing manner. 

“Mighty crick in the neck, huh?” She elbowed his side lightly, like one soldier to the next. 

The man’s laugh was low and gritty, like the crunch of gravel beneath a horse’s hooves, and the sound made the hairs on the back of Yang’s neck stand on end. He looked over at her, brown eyes half-lidded and lazy, and said, “We’re here.” 

Yang frowned at him and sat up straighter in her seat, craning her neck to see over the prisoners toward the front of the wagon. Her eyes fell on the sturdy stone walls of a keep, broad wooden gates swung wide open and inviting them inside. As they passed through the opening, Yang’s stomach made a slow drop. 

Yang usually trusted her gut feelings, and at the moment, her gut was screeching at her to make a break for it. 

To their right sat a small band of Thalmor, and seated atop a beautiful, snow-white charger was James Ironwood himself, crisp grey-black hair shining in the dull autumn sun. His armor sparkled as if it was brand new, and honestly, Yang wouldn’t put it past the Imperial general. From the rumors she’d heard, it wouldn’t surprise her that he had a shining set of armor for every day of the week. 

But if General Ironwood was  _ here _ , that meant this was bad. 

This was  _ very _ bad. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Yang breathed. 

The man beside her gave her a tedious smile. “Best pray to whatever gods you follow. You’ll be meeting them soon.” 

Yang shook her head. The cart ambled past the Thalmor and General, even though she was wishing with all her might it would stop and turn back around. “This can’t— I didn’t even  _ do _ anything!”

The man shrugged. “Does it look like any of them care? Any of us?” He gestured to the other prisoners. “Say your prayers and wish it doesn’t take more than one whack.”

The metal on her hands was warming, glowing orange with the heat radiating from her body, but Yang was too shocked to notice. 

She was going to be beheaded. For doing nothing. Absolutely  _ nothing _ . 

She’d be damned to hell if she didn’t go down fighting. 

By the time the cart came to a stop in a small courtyard filled with a headsman waiting with an ax slouched on his shoulder, a hooded priestess with her head bowed in prayer, and two heavily armored Imperial soldiers, one holding what looked like a ledger, Yang had a plan fully formed in her mind. She hopped down from the cart, eyes locking on the Imperial with the book, and she stepped forward, out of line—

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”

Yang froze at the hand that had wrapped around her wrist. Her skin was blisteringly hot— she knew that for a fact; she’d been working herself up for the last few minutes until she was literally steaming— but the dark haired and excessively shackled girl’s grip didn’t falter. Yang’s eyes traveled from the girl’s now steaming hand up to her odd eyes, brows slowly pulling together in anger. 

“If you think I’m going to let them kill me for doing  _ shit _ , then you’re as crazy as they are,” she said, shaking her wrist in an attempt to break the girl’s grip. 

Her grasp only tightened. Yang was the one who winced. “If you think I’m going to let you ruin this for me, then you’re as stupid as they are.” Her voice was lighter and more even than she imagined it to be, smoother and much calmer than her own. 

_ Wait _ . “You  _ want _ them to cut off your head?”

The girl stared her down. 

“Next, please. You, there, please step forward.”

Yang’s head whipped forward at the soft call. The Imperial with the book was waving her forward, quill in hand. The dark haired girl finally let go, and Yang stepped forward, slightly shaken. 

“What’s your name?” the blonde soldier asked, voice shaking slightly. He didn’t look much older than her, perhaps even a year or so younger, and the hand holding his quill shook. 

A candle lighted in Yang’s head.  _ Maybe _ … 

“Yang Xiao Long,” she answered truthfully. 

The young man took a moment to look through his ledger, blue eyes squinting at the writing. It took him a minute, but eventually, he looked up, face the perfect picture of honest confusion. His eyes cut to Yang, then to the helmeted woman beside him. “You’re— she’s not on the list.”

“That’s because I didn’t  _ do _ anything. They took me off the street and shoved me—”

“Send her to the block anyway,” the helmeted woman cut in— a captain of some sort, she assumed. 

Yang gaped for a moment, then shook her head. “No, this is a mistake—”

“The Empire does not make mistakes,” the woman said, clipped and stiff. “To the block.”

Yang stood there, stock still in shock. She could feel waves of heat rolling through her from head to toe, and steam started to rise from her shoulders as she took a step forward— 

—only to be shoved to the side by the dark-haired girl behind her. 

“Blake Belladonna,” she spoke evenly. 

The young man searched through his ledger, quill hovering over the paper and moving down as he read through the names. Sweat had gathered atop his brow that hadn’t been there seconds before, and his eyes had grown wide, brows pulled together. Yang could tell he was shaken by the whole thing; if she could just get in a few more words— 

His quill stilled over the paper, his face growing pale. He spoke a soft, “Oh,” then checked something off on the list. He cleared his throat, looked back up at the girl— Blake, she had named herself— and crossed himself quickly. 

Yang watched the exchange, more than puzzled. Shaking the confusion and curiosity starting to burn a hole in her head, she started again, “Sir—”

“ _ To _ .  _ The _ .  _ Block _ ,” the captain barked at her. When Yang stubbornly stayed where she was, going so far as to raise a brazen eyebrow at her, the woman took two swift steps forward and snapped the back of her gauntleted hand across Yang’s cheek. 

Yang’s reaction was instantaneous. Fire bubbled in her veins, vision tinged a fervent red-orange, and she grit her teeth. She could feel the heat building in the back of her throat, choking her, feeding her anger more and more— almost enough for her to lose the control she’d worked toward for years. Her fists raised of their own accord, and she snarled, “You  _ bitch _ —”

Her hands were yanked down by the chain between them. The force of the pull put her off balance, and Yang stumbled slightly, the inferno beneath her skin sputtering. Someone grabbed the back of her shirt and hauled her back to stability. When she spun around to see who had kept her in check, she was only slightly surprised to see the Blake girl staring up at her with vexation in her odd eyes. Yang met her stare with one of her own, though in all honesty, it was more of a glare. 

“Don’t,” Blake repeated. 

Yang snatched her shackles out of the girl’s hands. In the back of her mind, the question of how the girl had been able to touch the metal binding her raged, since it surely would have been perilously hot and painful to touch. She pushed the thought aside, though, instead favoring the slightly subdued anger Blake caused her. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. Blake simply walked away, toward the line up of prisoners in front of them. Before following, Yang made sure to spit in the captain’s direction. She turned away before she could see the woman’s reaction. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Yang growled as she took a place beside Blake and the man she’d sat next to on the cart. “I didn’t do anything.”

Both Blake and the man remained silent. Yang attempted to cross her arms angrily but found the shackles prevented her from doing so. She dropped her hands to her sides bitterly, foot starting to tap against the ground in a way to vent some of the pent up rage and energy still in her body. 

If she was going to make some sort of move, it needed to be soon. Her plan to guilt the young soldier hadn’t worked as well as she hoped it would, so that was out of the picture. There were too many eyes in the courtyard to try sneaking off, and even if there weren’t, Yang wouldn’t have much luck with it. She had two left feet when it came to stealth, preferring instead to hit the problem head-on. But that was impossible this time, with the amount of trained soldiers in the area. 

Not to mention the girl standing to her left. Yang doubted she could make it a foot before Blake was dragging her back in line to be killed. 

What the hell was her problem anyway? What kind of person  _ wants _ to be killed, much less beheaded? And why was she restrained so thoroughly? The girl was several inches shorter than her and built much slimmer, so she surely couldn’t be that much of a menace. 

_ Then again _ , Yang thought,  _ Ruby’s even smaller than Blake, and she’s a daemon with a scythe. _

Her thoughts were forcibly shoved to the side when General Ironwood took a place in front of the line of prisoners. His handsome face held no smile, and his right hand crossed his body to grip the hilt of his sheathed sword, a not-so-subtle hint at what would happen if anyone tried anything in his presence. He walked down the line of prisoners in silence, meeting each and every one of their eyes, staring into their souls. When he passed Yang, she felt as if he peeked into her mind and saw the dozen half-formed escape plans she’d concocted in the past few minutes. She didn’t shrink away from his gaze, though, instead puffing out her chest and lifting up her chin proudly. The general shook his head as he moved on to Blake. 

Yang didn’t miss the faint nod he sent her, the respect concealed in the small action. 

_ The plot thickens _ . 

Eventually, the general got to the end of the line. 

He stopped in front of the last prisoner, the man who Yang likened to a daedric prince of death. 

The two men stared each other down, and even from as far away as she was, Yang could feel the tension radiating from the two. Ironwood’s grip on his sword hilt tightened, his eyes narrowing as he looked upon Death-man’s comely face. After several more seconds of silence, he finally spoke. 

“How did it feel?” Ironwood said. His voice was a lighter timbre than she thought it would be, tone borderline contemptuous. “I imagine it was difficult, even for you.” 

Death-man blinked at him, slow as molasses. For such a small movement, it was packed to bursting with boredom and brass. 

Ironwood continued, “Shouting a man apart couldn’t have been easy. It obviously took its toll on you, boy. You wouldn’t have been caught otherwise, I assume.”

Yang’s jaw fell slack.  _ Oh, gods _ … 

Death-man had an actual name, obviously, but before now, Yang hadn’t known it. 

Anyone who was anyone in Tamriel knew of the murder of the High King and his killer's simple name: 

_ Grimm _ . 

Yang shuddered involuntarily. Now she understood the tattoos, the gag, the all-around malignant look about him. He was the leader of the Stormcloaks, a man who launched himself into infamy through butchery and cunning, a man who some called the Son of Salem herself, others the Savior of Skyrim. Yang herself called him neither; she preferred the term  _ coward _ . 

She’d already known she was sentenced to beheading, but with this new piece of information, it made the whole situation seem so much more real. The headsman’s ax gleamed anew, the irons around her wrists grew heavier, and Ironwood's words rang louder than before. 

“You started this war,” the general spoke. “Plunged Skyrim into chaos. Now the Empire is going to  _ put you down _ —” Ironwood leaned closer on those three words, the two men’s noses almost touching. “—and restore the peace.” 

A haunting, hollow bellow cut Ironwood’s speech short. Yang instinctively looked around, as did most everybody else, searching for the strange sound’s source. Her eyes eventually lifted to the sky, since everywhere else brought forth no answers. Nothing was there, only a few fluffy clouds drifting by in the mellow breeze. 

A soldier called out, “What was that?”

“It was nothing,” another answered. 

Yang looked to Ironwood. The man had pulled his sword an inch or so out of its sheath at the noise, light eyes searching around for any immediate threat. He seemed to come to the same conclusion Yang had: that there was nothing there to worry over. It must have been the wind howling through the mountain peaks, or something of the like. 

“Carry on,” Ironwood barked out. He glanced back at Grimm, then walked away, sword sliding back into its sheath. His hand never strayed from its hilt, though. 

“Yes, General Ironwood,” the captain who had backhanded Yang said. The sight of her made Yang’s blood boil. She wore the slightest smirk as she turned to the priestess beside her and said, “Give them their last rites.” 

The priestess looked fairly shocked at the sudden calling, though her hood hid most of her features. She nodded her head quickly and raised her arms to the sky, head tilting back and eyes closing. She called to the heavens, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—”

“For the love of Talos, shut up,” a Stormcloak down the line snapped. He walked forward, steps sure and strong and head lifted high in what seemed to be pride, and said, “Let’s get this over with.” He dropped to his knees before the block unceremoniously, glaring daggers at the priestess, captain, and headsman. 

Yang watched as the priestess dropped her hands and folded her arms across her chest. She said quietly, “As you wish,” and stepped back, into the shadow of the keep tower behind her. 

The headsman stepped into place, and a soldier came up behind the impatient Stormcloak. Without any warning, the soldier pushed the prisoner down onto the block roughly, positioning him so his head would fall into the wicker basket waiting at the end of the block. 

“Come on,” the Stormcloak growled. 

His demeanor shifted then, so slight Yang almost missed it. His next and last words were softer, less fervid and more visceral than anything she had ever heard. 

“I haven’t got all morning.”

Yang’s stomach churned. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from what was about to happen. 

There were three loud, bulky chops, each one punctuated by soft grunts, and then it was over. 

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” the man beside her murmured. 

Yang had to remind herself to breathe in the next few seconds. She didn’t even bother trying to talk herself into looking; if she did, she knew she would surely empty the contents of her stomach. She did open her eyes in the end, because she knew she had to. She could see the headless corpse lying at the block in her peripheral vision, and she grimaced, lifting her eyes higher and away from the sickening sight quickly. 

She’d seen her fair share of gore over the years, but this was different. This was the taking of a man’s life simply because his ideologies didn’t line up with another’s. Killing bandits or thugs or criminals was one thing, but this… 

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. She knew she would never get used to this kind of slaughter. 

“Next,” the captain called out. Her gaze traveled along the line of prisoners, and Yang knew just by the look in her dark grey eyes that she was deciding who she wanted to see die next. 

When the captain’s gaze locked with her own, Yang found herself shaking her head. 

“That girl there,” the woman said. “The blonde in the leathers. Bring her forward.”

Two soldiers moved to comply, and Yang spoke loud and suddenly, “ _ No _ .” The soldiers took hold of her upper arms and hauled her forward toward the bloody block. “I didn’t do anything,” she screamed, throat burning and skin scorching. “I didn’t  _ do anything _ !” 

Both of the soldiers winced at the sudden spike of heat radiating from her, but neither loosened their grip. In a last resort, Yang reared her head to the left, catching the unsuspecting guard on the chin and causing him to cry out in alarm. 

Two more soldiers rushed forward, one kicking the back of her knees and the other drawing his sword, just in case. Yang fell to the ground, cobblestones cutting painfully into her knees, and grunted when the two soldiers holding her pushed her down onto the wet block. One reached toward her cheeks to turn her head, but Yang reared forward and caught his fingers in her teeth, biting down hard until she heard a crunch and tasted blood. The soldier howled and sprang away from her, leaving the other three to deal with her. There was that hollow, ringing bellow again, somewhere in the background.

One of the soldiers fisted his hand in her hair and slammed her head down onto the block hard enough for her to see stars. Yang was discomposed long enough for the men to position themselves out of the headsman’s way while still holding her down. 

She couldn’t see the ax. 

She wanted to see the ax, wanted to know when it was coming. 

Her eyes squeezed shut, teeth bit into her tongue hard enough to draw blood, and she thought  _ dadrubyqrow _ — 

And then there was a deafening screech— so loud it made Yang grimace in pain. 

“ _ What in Oblivion is  _ that?”

“ _ Sentries, what do you see _ ?” 

The ground shifted beneath her, and Yang heard the chaotic sounds of swords being freed from their sheaths, bows being pulled taught, men shouting in fear and alarm. 

She opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t. 

Perched atop the keep tower right in front of her was a thing of myth, of legend, the kind of thing Tai told her about when she was younger to scare her into doing her chores and staying in line. Its head was huge, scales sharper and duller than she had imagined as a child. Horns jutted out of the sides of its skull like limbs twisted in all the wrong directions, their white color startling against its mottled, dark grey body. Its teeth were as long as her arm and as dismal as spilled ink, and its eyes were shining lakes of black fire. Beneath its armored skin were prominent muscles, rippling as it leaned low over the lip of the now-crumbling keep tower and let out a soul-crushing roar. Spittle leapt from its mouth, and wherever it landed, it bubbled and burned. A prisoner was unlucky enough to have been hit, and his screams were lost as the dragon bellowed again. 

The colossus’s head swerved in her direction. 

Yang blinked. 

_ This can’t be happening…  _

She lay on the block, the dragon staring at her and she staring back. It breathed out, the noise sounding much like a horse’s sigh but lower and louder. A rumble started in the back of its throat, and Yang felt it in her chest, burrowed and burning somewhere deep in her soul. Fire surged in her veins, so strong she was blinded for a moment, like the first time she’d discovered her affinity for destruction magic, and she coughed up smoke, gagging on the stinging taste of it. 

Above her, stone cracked and crumbled as the dragon shifted its weight, leaning low on its haunches in preparation to leap into the sky. She watched through itchy, burning eyes, stunned, as its powerful legs pushed its body up into the air, wings flapping mightily to sustain its weight. 

It opened its jaws wide, and another screech was thrown at the world. 

The keep tower listed to the side, and Yang froze in absolute fear as it came crashing down on top of her. 

As dust filled her lungs, the world went black. 


	2. It's a Bird! It's a Plane! No, It's a Dragon (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooooooo i am back wazzup???
> 
> second installment of this hot mess, hope y'all enjoy it!!! writing it was fun and i may or may not have gotten carried away in some parts haha
> 
> tell me your thoughts down below, i love hearing feedback!

At first, Yang thought she was dead.

The chaos around her, the monster in the sky, and the falling tower had faded away in the blink of an eye, and she was now enveloped in darkness. She couldn't feel or hear anything, but slowly— ever so slowly— she sensed the warmth of hands gripping her arms and hauling her up. She still couldn't see, but if this was Sovngarde, she thought it a mighty odd welcoming party.

Then it was gone. In the blink of an eye, it was all gone, and Yang stood breathless and out of the collapsing tower’s reach. She cringed away from the lights, the sounds, the smells, incredibly disoriented as she stared at the place where she had just been laying moments before. It was a mass of broken and cracked stone.

“By the Eight,” she breathed.

Beside her, Blake was standing with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

It took Yang a second to piece it all together, but when she did, she was still confused. Wincing as the dragon let out another shriek, she yelled over the chaos at Blake, “You saved me?” She noticed the girl was missing the shackles around both her ankles and wrists.

Blake’s eyes cut up to her, then slipped to the sky. She took another deep breath and stood up to her full height. Without answering her question, she said, “This way.” The girl took off like an arrow toward a round, half-demolished keep tower, and as the ground shook beneath their feet, Yang sprinted after her.

They reached the tower with little trouble, but they weren’t the only ones to do so. Inside was a wounded Stormcloak soldier and—

…the Stormcloak leader himself.

_ Grimm _ .

In front of her, Blake cursed, “Shit,” and bolted up the tower’s only set of stairs. Yang glanced at the now unbound and ungagged man, eyes catching his own for a split second before she made the same decision as Blake and ran.

She got as far up the stairwell as she possibly could and found Blake staring at a wall of debris. It seemed part of the keep had collapsed, and it was now blocking the stairs and whatever plan Blake had thought up.

Yang glanced from the girl to the debris and back. “Do you have any more tricks up your—”

Before Yang could finish her question, there was a deafening roar, and Blake grabbed her wrist and hauled her half-way down the stairs. The wall where they’d been standing exploded inwards in a mess of fire and stone.

Yang blinked at the dark-haired girl. “How did you—”

“Lucky guess.” With that, she was off up the staircase again, throwing herself out of the tower’s new window. Yang glanced behind her to see Grimm staring up at her from where he knelt beside the wounded Stormcloak soldier, a dagger now in one of his hands. He tilted his head at her, eyes calculating and cunning, and just as she was about to say something, his hand lashed out and split the soldier’s throat from ear to ear.

There was a split second of hesitation. The fire in Yang roared to life, and she almost charged down and beat the man senseless for killing one of his own men, but then she took a closer look at the soldier. His left arm was completely missing, the left side of his face burnt beyond identification, and his left leg was gone below the knee. The burns coupled with the blood loss from his missing arm and leg didn’t make for a good product, Yang knew.

He would have died anyway. Grimm was doing him a mercy.

As Grimm turned away from her and looked to the soldier laying limp and cold beneath him, he drew back his dagger, looked at its bloody edge. He wiped it off on his furs, then looked back up at Yang.

There was something about his eyes. They made her uneasy, uncomfortable. They were too dark, so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. There were stolen things hidden in them, she knew, and she found she didn’t want to learn what exactly he’d filched.

He didn’t smile as he thrust the dagger forward again, right into the corpse’s heart.

Yang flinched.

He did it again, and again, and again, and probably again, but Yang didn’t know for sure, because she turned and ran in the direction Blake had gone.

She jumped out of the tower with little thought, falling through a hole in the next building’s roof and rolling when she hit the wood of the upper floor. She took off, hopping down through another hole and down in the first level of the house, then ran through the unhinged front door.

She skidded to a halt not far out. Blake was there, along with the man she’d sat by on the prison cart and the young Imperial who’d held the ledger— but most pressing of all, there was the dragon. Huffing and pacing in front of them, scales swallowing the sunlight right up, heat radiating from it in stifling and sweltering waves, it was hard not to look at it and feel immensely small, in both stature and strength.

There was no easy way around it; behind it lay a mountain of rubble and debris of fallen towers, walls, and homes. From what she could see, the only way to get past it was a small alleyway to the monster’s right, which was conveniently blocked by one of the dragon’s wings.

Yang bit her lip. “We need a distraction,” she called over the crackle of flames and the crumble of stone.

The young Imperial started, “I’ll do it—”

Blake spoke as if the Imperial hadn't. “On it.” The Imperial shrunk away, his small bout of courage being broken by the sturdy resolve in Blake’s voice.

Yang watched— stunned by her easy acceptance of the certain suicide mission when she’d just escaped a literal death sentence mere minutes ago— as she stepped forward and picked up a small piece of timber, spinning the wood in her hand with casual expertise. “You all head toward that alley there.”

Yang hesitated.

The girl had saved her life earlier. It would be rude of her not to do the same, right? She’d been a bit of a bitch before the whole dragon fiasco, but would that not be incredibly petty, to leave her to be roasted alive just because she’d been rude earlier?  _ Dad would say so _ .

And so, Yang made up her mind.

Just as she reached out to keep Blake from tossing the makeshift spear, a meaty hand closed around the dark-haired girl’s wrist and ripped the timber from her hands. It was the man Yang had sat beside in the prison cart, the mustachioed man who had told her to pray to her gods now rather than later.

Strange, how horrible situations made heroes out of the most unsuspecting individuals.

The man barked at the two of them, “I’ll take care of this.”

Yang didn’t have time to ask him why or even for his name before Blake was dragging her off toward the alley. She watched in horror as the man crossed himself, head turned up to the sky, then promptly threw the timber at the dragon’s head, hitting it squarely between the eyes. It seemed to be a vain beast, for instead of turning toward the small group of prey to its right, it honed in on the single man, moving its wing away from the alley and creeping toward the fiend who had dared to hit it.

Yang forced herself to turn away from the scene behind her, telling herself she didn’t want to know what happened; if she didn’t watch, there could be a chance he would survive. So she ran with Blake and the young Imperial, weaving in and out of burning houses, leaping over fallen walls and caved-in roofs and too many corpses to count. Eventually, the three of them made it to a wide courtyard, one twice the size of the one where they had almost been beheaded. There was a keep to their right with two entrances, and with little thought, the trio sprinted to the nearest one. Blake hit it first, whipping the door open so fast Yang feared she’d taken it off its hinges. Luckily, she hadn’t, and as Yang bent over with her hands on her knees, sucking in breath after breath, the third of their little party slammed the door shut behind them, pushing a thick piece of wood across the portal to bar it.

The three of them stayed there for several seconds, catching their breath and digesting all that had just happened.

That was a dragon— there was no doubt in Yang’s mind about that. She’d thought they were just tales told to children to make them behave, legends to make the gods and heroes seem that much more impressive. Yet here she was, struggling for breath after outrunning one of the myths themselves. It was insane, absolutely  _ insane _ — but it was real. It had to be.

But reality itself was incredibly tough to chew on, so she found herself asking, “Was that what I think it was?” She looked to her two new comrades to gauge their reactions.

The young Imperial was leaned back against the wall beside the door, chest heaving and bright blue eyes blown wide in terror. He pushed his light blonde hair out of his face with a shaking gloved hand as he looked around, searching for something— probably his sanity if Yang could guess. His chin wobbled while his mouth hung open, words seeming to fail him completely.

Blake, on the other hand, was—

She was searching a corpse.

Yang blinked in surprise, then stepped forward into the circular entry chamber, calling out a sharp, “ _ Hey _ .”

Blake spared her a glance, tossed her a small iron key which Yang barely caught in her shackled hands, then went back to work. The girl rummaged for a few more seconds before pulling away with a wickedly sharp dagger and a coin pouch. Strapping the dagger to her side and counting out her newly found coinage, she said flatly, “Hey.”

The key surprisingly fit perfectly in her shackles, and she let the iron fall to the ground at her feet, rubbing her wrists idly. “What do you— what do you think you’re doing?” she asked, taking a slow step toward Blake. She was painfully aware of the fact that this dangerous stranger was armed and unchained, and though she herself was no longer shackled, Yang still had no weapon. If something happened and Blake attacked her, she was at a severe disadvantage.

Blake glanced up at her as she closed the coin pouch and tucked it into her furs. “What does it look like?”

“Well, it looks like you're robbing a dead man.”

“Is it really robbing if he’s dead?”

Yang made a sour face. “That’s a screwed up way of thinking.”

Blake turned away as she stood up, walking toward a metal gate to their right and jiggling the bars. When it didn’t budge, she turned around and walked to the opposite wall, where a wooden gate lay, and started toward it.

She froze halfway there, head tilting slightly, and Yang asked, “What is—”

“Shh,” she said, bringing a finger to her lips and waving her other hand at her for silence. Her golden eyes squinted at the wooden gate, and she started, “Do you hear—”

“ _ Come on, soldiers _ ! _  Keep moving _ !”

Yang knew that voice. It had ordered her to the block just a couple minutes ago.

Her hands burst into flames at the thought of the Imperial captain, and she tightened them into fists. If that woman walked through the door right now, she would beat her ass into next week— no, scratch that, she’d beat her into the next  _ year _ .

Just her luck, it seemed the woman was leading a small group of soldiers toward them, if the beat of a synchronized march growing louder and louder told her anything. Blake bolted over to the wall just beside the door, crouching down as she pulled out the dagger she’d stolen and readied herself. Yang took the time to prepare herself for the oncoming fight, for one was certain to take place with Blake and she being escaped prisoners. She closed her eyes and focused on building and feeding the flames engulfing her fists, kicking up the notch as the fire spread up to her elbows.

Behind and to her left, she heard the sound of a sword being drawn. She glanced over, keeping her flames in check, to see that the young Imperial boy had pulled out his sword and held it in a trembling hand. His face was a mask of grim determination, but the shaking of his hands and chin gave away his true fear. He spoke, voice low and teeming with emotion, “I never wanted to join the Legion. I was conscripted.” He whipped the helmet he wore off of his head and kicked it to the side, the loud noise causing both Yang and Blake to sigh in exasperation.

If the troop of soldiers hadn’t known they were in this room before, they surely did now.

Yang raised her fists, getting into fighting position, as the captain and two other soldiers came into view behind the wooden bars. The captain’s dark grey eyes narrowed when they fell on her, and she pointed somewhere to the side. One of her soldiers walked out of sight, and a second later, the wooden gate separating them fell away.

Yang grinned at the woman, flaring her flames for show. “Fancy seeing you again.”

The captain glared at her and drew her sword, stepping forward into the room, right past Blake. Her two comrades followed, obliviously passing by the girl coiled in shadow.

Yang saw the internal debate in her odd eyes as clear as day:

_ Do I run or stay _ ?

“Take no prisoners. Kill the girl and the traitor!”

The Imperial boy froze up beside her, sword tumbling from his grip. Yang hoped Blake decided on the latter.

She launched herself forward, flaming right fist slamming into the side of the captain’s helmet, melting the metal on impact. Yang heard a shout of alarm as Blake sprung into action behind the two soldiers, and she smiled.  _ Good _ .

The captain was quick to react. She ripped her helmet off before it did any serious damage to her face, and in the next second, she was sweeping her sword toward Yang’s face in an attempt to cut the smug grin off of her face. Yang ducked to the side, straight into the fist of one of the other soldiers. The hit made the world spin, and Yang listed to the side, barely catching her balance before the soldier and captain closed in on her, one raising an iron mace high above his head, the other readying her two-handed sword for a devastating slice.

Yang blinked when a sword protruded from the soldier’s stomach. The man fell to his knees and standing behind him, now unarmed, was the Imperial boy, blood coating his hands. His eyes were wide with fright as he looked at Yang, mouth open in what looked like a silent scream of terror.

She shook the shock and haunting image from her mind, and when the captain brought her sword down in a deadly overhand arc toward her head, she ran head on to meet it. She watched as the captain’s eyebrows lowered in confusion as Yang stepped straight into the blade’s path, a cheeky smile forming on her lips. She raised her hand to block it, sending the woman a wink, and when the metal came within an inch of her open palm, it was blasted back by a column of flame so hot the tip of the sword melted. Molten metal ran down the blade in rivulets, and the captain tossed it to the side before her hands were burned.

“Too hot for you, huh?” Yang grinned.

The captain let out an animalistic growl and launched herself toward Yang with fists raised. Yang put out the fire on her arms and ducked past the woman’s first swing, leaving her foot behind to trip her up. It worked, and Yang was quick to turn and throw her left fist into the woman’s temple. She crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.

Yang shook out her fists, blowing out a deep breath. Her eyes swept over the damage the three of them had caused. The soldier Blake had busied herself with lay dead near the door he had come from, throat cut clean and true. The soldier the young Imperial had skewered was just a couple feet away from her, on his side, light eyes open and mouth ajar. Red stained his entire front and pooled around his form on the stone ground. The captain before her had a thin line of red running over her lips, and her dark grey eyes, which had held an alarming amount of abhorrence seconds ago, were now blank and clear.

Yang’s smile fell.

She hated killing. She  _ hated _  it, even if it was self-defense. That was the only way she could accept it and the only time she ever did it; if the situation meant that if she didn’t kill them, they would kill her, then she had to do it. She had a family to live for— a little sister, a father, and an uncle— and she knew the corpses in the room had had one, too, but the difference was simple. The corpses’ families weren’t her own.

As Yang wiped the back of her hand across her brow, sending a quick prayer up to the gods, Blake shot forward to the downed captain and searched her over.  

“Oh my gods, you’re ridiculous,” Yang muttered, setting her hands on her hips.

Blake glanced up toward her, carefully lifting a jeweled ring from the woman’s calloused fingers. “I don’t think you realize that we’re wanted by the Empire,” she said, looking back down to inspect the piece of jewelry. Deigning it worth enough gold, she slipped it into her furs. “Any bit of coin helps.”

“Who are you?” Yang asked. “Why are you here? Why were you locked up like an animal on the cart?”  _ Why did you want to die _ ?

Blake’s gold eyes cut up to her own, face masked in indifference. She gave her a once over, Yang feeling the need to shift beneath her heavy stare. Her eyes came back to her own before she moved, though. “You ask too many questions.”

“Maybe you don’t ask enough,” Yang shot back, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

Blake tore a leather pouch from the captain’s sword belt. She stood then, and tossed the pouch to Yang, saying, “Maybe it’ll buy you some sense.”

Yang caught the pouch, the leather hissing when it touched her skin. She scowled at the girl, who was now moving toward the metal gate opposite the one the Imperials had come from, a key in her hands. “You’re rude, you know.”

Blake didn’t look over her shoulder as she fiddled with the lock and key. She said, “I’ve been called worse.”

“What did you say your name was?” Yang said as she walked over toward her. “Blake Belladonna, right?”

“ _ Gods save me… _ ”

Both Yang and Blake looked behind them to see the young Imperial staring at his hands. Blood colored them red, the thick liquid running down his arms as he held them up before him.

Yang sighed, shoulders falling. Her heart ached for the kid; he’d just killed one of his own, and from the look of him, Yang wouldn’t be surprised if that was the first time he’d drawn blood, period.

She remembered the first time she’d had to kill. Three years ago, give or take, and a certain bird had been perched in the trees, watching her as she beat to death the armed bandit who’d jumped her.

She hadn't seen the damned bird since.

Yang shook her head. It was hard enough to kill a stranger, but someone you knew? She couldn’t imagine what was running through the boy’s mind right now.

Beside her, Blake walked forward and crouched down beside one of the corpses, ripping off a bit of fabric. She stood and held it out toward the afflicted boy, and with shaking hands, he took it, using it to clean his hands as best he could.

Yang watched as Blake hesitated. She glanced between the open door, Yang herself, and the boy once before she sighed through her nostrils.

“I know a guy…” she started. The girl paused for a moment, glancing down to the skewered Imperial. “He knows someone who can make you forget, if you want.”

Yang’s eyebrows rose. She definitely hadn't expected words like that to come out of Blake’s mouth. The girl struck her as uncaring, uninterested, and incredibly insolent, yet she’d offered the boy help. Very  _ illegal _  help, but help nonetheless.

The kind of mind magic Blake spoke of was strictly outlawed because it was extremely unpredictable, even for the greatest of magic wielders in the land. The only people who dared to use it were those in league with the black market, such as the struggling Thieves Guild, or the rising Dark Brotherhood, or just plain old brigands.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that the girl was potentially in league with one of the above, since she had been on the path to literally losing her head just a little while ago, but she was. She wasn’t sure  _ why _  (she knew it most definitely wasn’t because of her bubbly personality), but it struck her as strange. Perhaps it was her age; she looked hardly a day older than Yang herself, who only had seventeen years under her belt.

The Imperial looked at the girl without really seeing her. His voice was soft and hollow as he asked, “What?”

Blake swallowed thickly. Yang watched as she glanced away, obviously uncomfortable or unfamiliar with offering this information. “The man can twist a memory so it’s slightly different than what actually happened. You won’t lose the entire memory; you just won’t remember part of it correctly. I’ve heard it’s painless.”

Yang watched the both of them carefully, Blake to see if she was lying, the boy to see if he would take the bait.

She wasn’t very surprised when he nodded slowly. “I want that.”

“You can usually find him in Whiterun,” she told him. “Go to the Bannered Mare and ask for the panther. Someone’ll take you to him, but he won’t help you unless you tell him the kitten sent you.”

Yang kept her snort of laughter to herself.

The  _ kitten _ ?

If Blake was referring to herself (which Yang was ninety percent sure she was), the girl should seriously rethink her code name. Blake didn’t scream  _ cuddly _  or  _ cute _  at all— she didn’t scream anything, really. Yang had realized the talk of her soul was much quieter, more of a low whisper than a shout, and it spoke through subtle implications that her life was one of danger and torment.

But  _ kitten _ ? Really?

“I’d say you’re more of a tiger,” Yang spoke up.

Blake glared over her shoulder, but Yang didn’t really see where the offense was in her com—

It was her timing, wasn’t it?

She rubbed the back of her neck as she said, “Sorry.”

Blake shook her head in disdain as she turned back to the young Imperial. The boy still looked shell shocked, his whole frame a painting of the grief that came with the loss of innocence. The way he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from his pink-stained hands, the way his knees shook like thin tree branches in the autumn wind, and the vacant look on his face were enough to make Yang’s chest ache with pity. The whole situation was rotten, and she figured he was now wondering how in hell he would get to Whiterun from here, now that he was a fugitive of the Empire.

She stepped toward the boy. “My name’s Yang.”

The boy looked at her blankly for a moment, then blinked several times, clearing something from his vision— perhaps an unwanted replay of the past few minutes. He cleared his throat once, twice, then a third time. His hands dropped to his sides and hung there limply as he said, “I’m Jaune.”

Yang sent him a smile. The name suited him. “Well, Jaune, it’s nice to meet you.” She paused then, taking a moment to think about the possible repercussions of the words she was about to say.

If she offered to help him get to Whiterun, Tai would be furious. Qrow would be none too pleased either, and Ruby would probably be disappointed she went on an adventure without her. Ignoring the cons, the pros were this: she’d get to go on a short adventure, and she’d be able to make sure Jaune didn’t get himself killed on the journey to Whiterun. He seemed like a nice boy— a gentle soul, someone who could hardly stomach eating the meat of animals— and it would be an honest shame for him to have survived a dragon attack, only to be cut down a few days later because he didn’t know how to tell a bandit from a hold’s guardsman.

Speaking numerically, the cons outweighed the pros, but…

Yang was a creature built on impulse. Right now, her impulses were telling her to help this boy out.

Her words were a simple offer. “I can help you get to Whiterun, if you’d like.”

Jaune looked at her as if she was a dragon come back to life. It wasn’t really the reaction she expected; she’d thought he would immediately accept her offer and they’d be on their merry little way to the city in no time. Instead, he stayed silent for several seconds, then said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re right, I don’t— but I want to,” Yang replied without missing a beat. She grinned, hoping to ease him just a little more. “It’s the least I could do. You helped save my life.”

Jaune looked at her, then dropped his eyes back to the ground, brow furrowing in thought. Waiting for him to answer was about as painful as an arrow straight to the knee, and by the time he finally spoke, she’d started to tap her foot subconsciously. “That would be… I think I’d like that. Thank you— thank you so much.”

Yang glanced at Blake, raising both eyebrows in a silent question.

Blake answered by rolling her eyes. “You have got to be joking…”

“Do I look like I ever joke around?” Yang asked, donning the straightest face she could manage in the moment, which wasn’t very straight at all. A thrilling current thrummed through her veins, something a mix between excitement and worry, something electrifying. It wasn’t fear—  no, it was far too light to be fear. It stirred in her chest, heated the adrenaline coursing through her body, and fed the warmth prickling at her fingertips. She lived for this feeling, this foolhardy enthusiasm pushing her toward the unknown.

And unknown Blake definitely was. She was dangerous, that much was painfully obvious, and asking her to tag along seemed an idea fated to end in disaster. But there was a difference between being dangerous and being deadly.

“You seem to know a lot about keeping a low profile,” Jaune piped up, sounding only slightly terrified.

If Yang thought waiting for Jaune to answer was painful, waiting for Blake was pure torture. The girl’s face was almost as blank as the corpses’ at their feet. Her eyes shifted from Jaune to Yang several times, but she still remained silent, mulling over the proposal. Yang’s eyes slipped down to Blake’s hand when her grip on her stolen dagger tightened, the action making Yang tense and curl her hands into fists. Despite not having tried anything yet, Yang had the notion that she was still a powder keg sitting perilously close to fire, and the slightest movement in the wrong direction could set her off. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did go off; her guess was Blake would either run away or assault them. Neither sounded great.

Eventually, the girl let out a deep sigh. She tucked her dagger away into her furs, dropped her hands to her sides. She looked up at Jaune and Yang, forfeiture marked in the slight slump of her shoulders and the tiny, disbelieving shake of her head. When she spoke, she sounded sorely unsure of her decision, “I guess I’ll join you.”

Yang grinned. “Awesome. Now, then—”

A horrid, earsplitting roar shook the building.

“Time to move,” Blake spoke above the low rumble of shifting stone. Her mouth hardened into a grim line.

“Talk can happen if we get out of this alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidenote, kind of off-topic: am i the only one that thinks skyrim's magic system leaves a lot to be desired? whenever i attempt to be a badass mage i just end up falling back to like archery or some shit bc it just feels lacking and halfassed :/
> 
> anyways, if you have any thoughts, comments, or questions, let me hear 'em! it's like music to my ears, good or bad lol

**Author's Note:**

> constructive criticism is totally welcome and appreciated!! tell me what you liked, didn't like, what made you laugh, etc. it all helps!!


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